


here's my number (so call me maybe)

by wishfulfiction



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Basically there's a lot of mentions of different kinks but none of them are explored in much detail, M/M, Matt & Foggy don't know each other yet, Phone Sex Worker!AU, Slow Build, demisexual Matt, vague VAGUE mention of watersports, vague mentions of daddykink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:30:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4115575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishfulfiction/pseuds/wishfulfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the list of <i>Things Most Surprising to Learn about Matt Murdock</i>, “being a phone sex worker” was probably number two, at least. </p><p>It would be number one, were it not for Matt’s whole “world on fire” thing.</p><p> </p><p><i>Or</i>; Matt Murdock is a phone sex worker trying to earn some extra money to afford Columbia. Foggy calls one day, and Matt's life is never the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jerk3max](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerk3max/gifts).



> This first chapter is short because I wanted to test the waters and see what everyone thought - comments, kudos, etc. would be greatly appreciated!
> 
> (yes, the title is from _that_ song. it fits well, so, oops?)

On the list of _Things Most Surprising to Learn about Matt Murdock_ , “being a phone sex worker” was probably number two, at least.

It would be number one, were it not for Matt’s whole “world on fire” thing.

His dad’s inheritance had lasted for a while, enough to get him through undergrad and his first apartment, but law school was _expensive_ , and even with his LSAT score and near-perfect GPA, Columbia wasn’t nice enough to give him any sort of significant scholarship. He needed to pay the _bills_. He’d managed to get a corner apartment at a hell of a discount because for _some_ reason no one else wanted the apartment eternally lit by a gaudy, _gigantic_ LED sign.

Sometimes being blind had advantages.

But yeah, _anyway_. He needed _money_ , and because he was fundamentally opposed to taking out more loans than absolutely necessary (because, _seriously_ , he was never going to be in debt to _anyone_ longer than he absolutely _had_ to), he had to work, a _lot_.

He’d tried traditional jobs, but the sad truth was, despite the ADA and the EEOC and the multiple promises of “we have a strict non-discrimination policy, Mr. Murdock, of course we do,” people didn’t think he could _work_.

He was just about to reconsider accepting at Columbia, somewhat grateful he wouldn’t have anyone to _disappoint_ by telling them “sorry to disappoint, but I won’t be able to attend the top four law school in the country because I’m _broke_ and too proud to go _two hundred thousand_ dollars in debt,” when he heard someone at a coffee shop, talking with her friend, about his lucrative work as a phone sex worker (to be fair to them, they hadn’t meant for _Matt_ to hear), but it had got him thinking.

He wasn't _good_ at sex. Or, more particularly, couldn’t be bothered, most of the time. It’d been something that ended more than one of his relationships, once his partner realized that he wasn’t that interested. He didn’t know how to explain _it’s not you, it’s me_ without saying those words, and it’d just felt _cheesy_ , and it didn’t help.

He wished he could tell them the truth, “I’m not sure I like sex and don’t know if I ever will,” “I would rather be reading Thurgood Marshall for the fiftieth time,” “I think you’re great and I want to kiss you, a _lot_ , but I don’t want to do anything _else_ ,” “I don’t mind helping you occasionally but please you don’t have to touch me.”

But he could pretend, he’d had enough practice in anticipating his partners’ responses, knowing how much they needed, _what_ they needed – besides, he could hear their breathing changing, minute microdetails that would help.

Anything to supplement his loans, get him the essentials, let him stay in the apartment he’d really grown to like.

And get silk sheets. _Fuck_ cotton.

 

* * *

 

 

Most of his clients were – well, he _advertised_ a twink, because his own research had shown it was a demographic _sincerely_ lacking – so it wasn’t a surprise that they wanted him to submit, basically, tell them what a good Daddy they were, “thank you Sir,” how Matt was just _desperate_ for their cocks, “please Sir let me touch myself _please_ ,” and, well. Most of the time he spent reading, speaking through the mic in his headphones so he could keep his hands free, pretending to moan and whimper when he ran his fingers over the words, _we must dissent from the poverty of vision and the absence of moral leadership_.

Matt felt his heart twinge for a moment, and he winces. Sometimes (though not that often, any more), the guilt that apparently is an inherent part of Catholicism rears its ugly head and reminds him it’s still there.           

It’s annoying, terribly inconvenient, and makes him feel like _shit_.

The client he’s talking to, _Graham_ , apparently, though Matt’s wary to trust anything any of his callers says, wakes him out of his thoughts. “Hello, Mike? You still there, baby?”

Matt’s face flushes slightly, and he nods, before speaking. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I –”

“Are you okay?” he’s asked, and it takes Matt aback, because he doesn’t really _get_ those inquiries, not by people calling him for _sex_. “We don’t have to–”

“No, no–” Matt says, shaking his head as he pushes away his Marshall book, shaking away the gnawing feeling in his stomach. “I was just getting undressed, Daddy, I was – you were making me all flustered.”

He hears the hitch in breathing, the stuttered breath before his caller speaks again, laughing in relief and asking him what he’s doing now.

“Laying down on my bed,” Matt lies, grateful he can’t tell, as he leans back in his chair, lips twisting slightly in thought. When “Graham” asks him to start touching himself, he turns his sigh into a nod and fakes a gasp, then a moan. 


	2. First Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt shrugs his shoulders despite the fact that Foggy (he's decided he'll call him that, even though there's no way that's his real name) absolutely cannot tell. “It's fine, really – do I need to tell you another story about another client to assure you this is absolutely not the weirdest call I've ever received?”
> 
> He can hear Foggy deliberate for a moment, hear him swallow, hard. “You don't have to, but it- well, it wouldn't hurt.”

The first month of law school is basically a blur. Between struggling with Student Services over getting his textbooks, struggling with his note taker (who, despite their job, didn't take notes at _all_ ), and working ten to four, he barely had enough time to sleep.

He sometimes didn't, even.

The second month of law school brings with it the coming fall, and Matt’s ecstatic (on the inside, he wouldn't _jump for joy_ or anything) now that he can wear his sweaters and long-sleeve shirts. The less skin exposed to the harsh wind and chill of the impending season, the better.

Besides, he'd been told his sweaters were _adorable_ , which. While certainly not dispositive, was more evidence that he should wear them. They were comfortable, too, which was a welcome surprise considering, apart from wrapping himself in silk entirely, he would never be one hundred percent comfortable with any fabric.

It’s right after his Property midterm, the one the professor said didn't count for credit but Matt put just as much effort into as he would for the exam. He's overworked, exhausted, just on the brink of collapse-

So, naturally, he logs onto the website, turns his status to ‘Available!’ and waits.

His first three callers take less than ten minutes each – Matt was worried, at first, that he wasn't doing a good job until he realized it was almost exactly the _opposite_. He's developed a script, almost, and now can hold some weird sense of pride in knowing he's beat his record.

It's approaching two a.m. – he knows, partially, because of his watch, but also because he takes about three tries before he can read the raised bumps properly – when he hears his phone ringing, _work, work, work_.

He taps the screen to answer, stifling a yawn as he settles down into the couch, one hand wrapped around him to hug his chest. It's getting cold now that it's approaching October, but he's too damn proud to turn on the heating because of the nagging thought of how much money it would cost.

“Hey, sexy,” Matt answers, the cliché leaving his lips near-automatically, “how can I help you today?”

A cough comes from the other end, and then a voice, laced with exhaustion. “I- uh, you can just call me Foggy.”

Matt stifles a laugh, because Foggy, _really_? Instead, he waits, a moment, to see if he'll say any more, before continuing. “Okay, Foggy. What can I do for you tonight?”

This guy’s more hesitant than most, and Matt fights the urge to roll his eyes at the knowledge that he'll have to actively encourage this guy to come out of his shell. He'd had it a few times, new clients that didn't realize they were essentially paying Matt to do whatever they wanted to do, and it always took a while for Matt to slowly coax them out, stroke their egos, tell them how _good_ they were and how happy he is to talk to them.

He doesn't really have the energy to do it today.

“I was just hoping- maybe we could talk?”

Matt raises his eyebrows, surprised. “We can do whatever you want to do, but- you do know you've called a sex line, right?”

Foggy clears his throat, Matt wincing and holding the phone away from his ear for a moment. “I – I know, and this was probably stupid, right? Like, you're thinking I'm this pathetic loser who can't talk to friends so he calls a sex line.”

That's absolutely right, but Matt’s not about to tell him that, not when this guy sounds so weary and run down, lacing his voice like it laces Matt’s voice after a particularly bad week. “You're not a pathetic loser, trust me. I have a guy that calls me and wants me to pretend to be his cat.”

Foggy laughs, and Matt’s embarrassed to admit that his cheeks heat up slightly at the sound, because it's one of the nicest he's heard. “That's - isn't there some kind of client-worker confidentiality?”

“I won't tell if you don't,” Matt says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Besides, what am I, a lawyer?”

Foggy groans at that and Matt frowns. “Don't remind me, ugh.”

“I – uh, I don't follow-” Matt starts, picking at the hem of his shirt where he can feel the seam starting to unravel. “Do you have a history of divulging personal information?”

“No, just the whole lawyer thing - I'm reconsidering it.” He _sounds_ like it too, from what Matt can tell, the tension in Foggy’s voice only building. Matt feels a slight sense of panic, the same he feels whenever he gets someone who voluntarily offers up the fact they're a lawyer. God knows he doesn't have some sort of hatred of them, he's going into the profession (although law _students_ were a different story). Matt just couldn't shake the terrible feeling that he was going to run into one of his clients, his regulars, in court and have to work through _that_ awkward situation.

Matt decides to casually ask, so he can avoid whatever area this guy practices in. “You're a lawyer, then? Where do you work?”

“I- oh, no, I'm not- I'm in school, right now, just finishing my first semester,” Foggy starts, and Matt’s heart sinks a little more, partially because there's a chance  they both go to Columbia, and more because he understands the exhaustion and weariness about a thousand times more than he did before. “It's a lot- well, law school sucks, and I don't even know if this is what I _should_ be doing.”

“You'll figure it out,” Matt says quickly, repeating the advice he got from some counselor in the first week, when he'd gone in with the same concern. “I bet a load of people are feeling the same way.”

Foggy laughs, but it's not the same from before, more bitter and less amused. “No offense, but you don't know the people at my school. They're – I don't know, all polished and put together and already talking about firms and summer jobs. And here I am, straight out of undergrad with a degree in freaking _English_ , with long hair and a goatee that-” He stops, clears his throat. “I'm- I’m sorry, I said I wanted to talk, not go on a tirade.”

Matt shrugs his shoulders despite the fact that Foggy (he's decided he'll call him that, even though there's no _way_ that's his real name) absolutely cannot tell. “It's fine, really – do I need to tell you another story about another client to assure you this is absolutely not the weirdest call I've ever received?”

He can hear Foggy deliberate for a moment, hear him swallow, _hard_. “You don't have to, but it- well, it wouldn't hurt.”

And that's how Matt describes the strangest call of his life, the one where a fifty-four year old man described how he'd duct tape Matt almost entirely and even made him get a roll of duct tape and do it to himself.

“But you didn't- did you?” Foggy asks, almost horrified, sighing in relief when Matt laughs and tells him no. “Oh, thank god. That's the weirdest thing you've had to do, pretend to be duct taped?”

“I mean, there were _other_ elements to it, of course- wanted me to submit, call him Sir- Master, actually,” and Matt pointedly ignores the sharp intake of breath on the other end, “and there- well, I won't go into the specifics, they're gross.”

Foggy scoffs and Matt can almost tell that he's shaking his head. “You've already piqued my interest, Mike, you _have_ to tell me now.” When Matt pauses for a moment, Foggy continues. “Oh, come on, you can tell me. Do I have to guess?”

Matt smiles wider, hugging himself tighter as he sinks further into the couch, ignoring the little warm feeling spreading through his chest. “I don't know if you'd be able to guess.”

“He pisses on you, right?” Foggy says, and Matt’s cheeks blush. “It's that or-” Foggy stops and Matt didn't even realize he was making an affirmative noise until Foggy speaks again. “I _knew_ it, once you said gross. How does that even work?”

“I mean,” Matt starts, clearing his throat, fidgeting slightly in his seat. “He just talks through it, I guess, and then I-” Matt pauses to pretend to moan a few times, his breath catching in little gasps, ignoring the matching hitch in breath on the other end of the line. “You know.”

He hears Foggy shift around, clearing his throat. “You’re good at it, the, uh- whole moaning thing.”

Matt shouldn’t be so proud, he really shouldn’t, but he can’t help the warm feeling spreading through him. “Thanks.”

“Course,” Foggy says, his voice changed only slightly, lower pitched for a moment before he seemingly catches it. “So, what do you really do, then, while you’re talking to everyone? I mean, I guess you could be-”

“Normally I read, I don’t really- you know, while I’m working.”

“Makes sense,” Foggy says, “to be fair, how many calls do you even get that you'd _want_ to do that? Or is that- shit, sorry, I shouldn’t ask-”

Matt blushes, shrugging more to himself as he goes ahead and answers. “Maybe one, every month? I don't know, most of what they want doesn't really-” sound appealing at all? “Register with me, in the way they think it will.”

Foggy hums, “How often do you get people calling asking just to talk? And if you don’t say that I’m one in a million my heart might just break, just a little bit,” Foggy says, the teasing sound in his voice obvious, but it doesn’t make Matt’s heart skip any less.

Matt laughs, the sound bubbling forward before he knows what's hit him. “Not that often, really. Most of the time they _say_ they want to talk but about two minutes in they're already talking about shoving me down to my knees or something.”

He hears Foggy pull away for a moment, frowns and wonders if he said something wrong, before Foggy speaks again. “We've been going for a full half-hour, do I win some kind of award?”

The corners of Matt's mouth turns up in a smile. This guy is _charming_ and as of now has yet to try and make some sort of pass on him. It's surprising but definitely refreshing.

“I think I could think of something- what about client of the night?”

Foggy laughs and Matt shivers involuntarily, cheeks heating up slightly when he realizes how immediate that reaction was. “If I call again soon can I gun for client of the month?”

“Maybe even the year,” Matt shoots back almost immediately. “But, you know, I _do_ have a lot of regulars.” He doesn't even mean to tease, really, but it just feels natural with this guy.

"I wouldn't expect anything less, honestly- your profile was probably the most inviting, by far, even if your profile picture was a little blurry.” Matt resists the groan, well _fuck_ , trust him to mess up the selfie he'd tried to take exclusively from the chest down in a vain attempt to show himself off _and_ maintain his anonymity.  He’s just about to make some flimsy excuse when Foggy continues. “I don't blame you though, really- if I was getting creeps calling me, I'd want to keep my picture as blurry as possible.”

"You're not a creep,” Matt qualifies, lips turning somewhat into a frown.

Foggy laughs, again, and Matt really could get used to that sound. “Thanks, Mike, I was excluding present company but it's good to know that you don't think I'm creepy.”

Matt doesn't mention that it's a fairly recent development, or that his stomach is currently doing somersaults, or that Foggy’s laugh is literally the best sound he's heard in a while.  “That's- well-”

"Aren't you supposed to be flustering me?” Foggy asks, amusement in his voice, and this is _so_ outside the bounds of what Matt's used to that he's not sure how to respond. “You've got a rockin’ bod, by the way. Pretty sure your abs are illegal in at least thirty states.” Matt goes to make a noise of protest, blushing slightly at the compliment- most of the time what he gets are compliments laced with innuendos of how much _better_ he'd look in XYZ position – but Foggy stops him, “No, you have to trust me, see, I'm almost one-sixth of the way to being a lawyer. I'm basically an expert.”

It's Matt's turn to laugh, and he's pleasantly surprised when Foggy joins him. “Does that- I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh, but it's just- no one’s used the obvious, totally-actual law to compliment me before. I'm honored, really.”

"Well, get used to it buddy,” Foggy says, and Matt _really_ hopes he means it. “I've got to go, I've gone about- oh, twenty minutes over what I budgeted.”

“Oh,” Matt starts, grimacing slightly because while normally he'd be more than thrilled to take the money of his clients, billing Foggy almost forty dollars over what he budgeted feels somewhat _wrong_. “I'm sorry about that, really-”

Foggy makes a psh sound, “don't worry about it, really. You've done exactly what I needed-“

"Which is?” Matt asks. He shouldn't, he _really_ shouldn't, but this guy has absolutely gotten the best of him and he wants to know how he can do better.

He really, _really_ wants him to call again.

“Given me someone to talk to, to make me relax,” Foggy says, and Matt can hear the smile in his voice. “I'm always about two seconds from quitting law school because I'm so tightly wound, but you've managed to pull me off that ledge.”

Matt sighs, gratefully, in lieu of saying _you've helped me relax too_. “I'm glad. Next time I'll make sure to throw in some shitty jokes.”

“Do I have to pay extra for those?” Foggy says, tone teasing. “Because, believe me, I would, but I might need to work an extra shift to make that happen.”

Matt squirms slightly, the thought of having to work through the hell that is 1L makes his skin crawl.

Well, working at something besides _this_.

“Don't worry, the jokes are included. They're so bad you probably deserve a discount,” Matt says, smile tugging at his lip. Foggy scoffs.

“Don't, you're worth the dollar ninety-nine a minute,” Foggy says, and it makes Matt’s chest warm in a way he's not expecting. “Did you know some dicks on this website charge six bucks per minute? It's practically highway robbery.”

“ _Superhighway_ ,” Matt adds, wincing almost instantaneously because seriously, when was the last time anyone referred to the internet like that? Matt’s almost contemplating jumping through the nearest window when Foggy giggles, actually for-real _giggles_.

“Nice one, Mike – information superhighway. Now I know you're at least an eighties baby, the last time I heard someone say _that_ must have been the nineties.”

Matt sighs, glad his jokes, the ones he normally reins in because no way the average human would find them funny, aren't lost on him. “Eighty-nine.”

“Sorry?”

“Nineteen-eighty-nine, the year I was born,” Matt says, “I just barely am an eighties baby.”

“Hey, me too!” Foggy says, and he sounds so legitimately happy Matt’s got butterflies. “I was born in August.”

“March,” Matt supplies, somewhat relieved that this guy is around his age. In case it ever _did_ lead to sex, he'd found the younger guys didn't know enough about what they wanted so he could guide them. “Not to cut you off, but I think we’re another five minutes over now, at least.”

There's another two seconds where Foggy pulls away from his phone before he curses. “Damn, you're right. You're too charming for your own good, you know.”

“Well, if you’d met me in real life you’d probably think differently,” Matt says, and Foggy makes a displeased noise.

“Are you one of those self-deprecating types? I bet you are. Well, guess what – we’ll talk again tomorrow and have a big long talk about how both of us are painfully inadequate,” Foggy says, and Matt agrees before he realizes that 1. tomorrow is _supposed_ to be his day off and 2. There is absolutely _no_ way Foggy is inadequate.

“Sounds like a plan,” Matt says, grin spreading slowly over his face as he brings his hand to scratch at the back of his neck, when did he get so _hot_? “I normally log on at about the same time.”

“Don’t worry, I definitely _won’t_ be checking the site every five minutes after eight p.m.,” Foggy says, a nervous laugh following. “Have a good night, Mike, I’ll call again tomorrow.”

Matt wishes him the same and it’s only seconds after the call ends that he speaks again.

“Matt. My name’s Matt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt's got an account on a site like www.niteflirt.com, basically.


End file.
